Archangel
by me malum
Summary: "He reminds me of the old legends, when angels were creatures of war rather than creatures of mercy."
1. Archangel

**Disclaimer-** I don't own FullMetal Alchemist or any associated angelic/religious mythology that found its way into my head.

It's a stream of consciousness. Not sure where it came from- let me know what you think of it?

Hope 'tis enjoyed.

* * *

The first time I heard it, I laughed. _Hero of the People_?

What did that even mean?

But- you see him stop in the streets to mend some girl's favourite doll. You hear the rumours that so-and-so's road is now safe to walk down in the wee hours of the morning. You read the reports (even _more_ of the blasted things since the promotion) that say, between the lines, _how the fuck'd he pull that one off? The bad guy was just- there- and he pauses to check the rubble for people caught in the crossfire. Pulled them out of the way even as he fought off the guy's attacks. Just- how the _fuck?

I get the whole darkness thing. None of us in this office are scared of the things hiding in the shadows, not anymore. We fought them, and we beat them. I know the Lieutenant still has nightmares; she never told me exactly what Pride did to her when she was ensnared.

She never had to. I offered her my shoulder, my spare room and access to my alcohol cabinet. She only took me up on the last one.

But I digress.

Why should we fear the dark, when he's out there?

Hero of the people? Yeah, more like their guardian angel, according to them.

It must have been a trick of the light. I know this; I know intimately the kinds of shadows light and _flames_ can cast.

But this day...

He'd kicked my door down, as usual. Spat that there was nothing wrong with his report, you bastard, and just 'cause you hate your own paperwork doesn't mean you can put it off interfering with everyone else's.

I laughed, of course. It made him angrier.

He doesn't realise that he's beautiful. It's the sort of beauty that's there all the time, in a casual take-another-look-because-I-didn't-quite-realise-the-first-time way. Did I say beautiful? I meant stunning.

You'd never confuse him for a girl. His shoulders are too broad, his hips too narrow and his face too angular. Even with the hair- girl's hair is sleek, or smooth, or at the opposite end of the scale and horrendously bushy. His hair is heavy, and thick, and looks like it's never seen a bottle of conditioner in its life. When it gets in his eyes, they narrow _just so_ in annoyance.

It pales to how open they become when he's furious. I can almost see the entirety of his irises by this point, from across my desk.

I must have said something off-hand. Something about my paperwork actually being in very _short_ supply, so I had the time to spare.

So he glared, and I was slightly surprised he wasn't jumping up on the desk by now. I caught something highly uncomplimentary about my mother muttered under his breath.

And I smirked, turning back to the papers on my desk.

He must have been particularly hacked off today, because he didn't stay to argue. He spun on his heel and went to storm out.

It was as he opened the door. The light and noise from the outer office was suddenly _there_ and _loud_ and I've looked up to tell them to shut the hell up before Riza shoots the lot of them-

And sat there, mouth hanging open, eyes staring.

Was that-

_Wings_? Two of them, set just below his shoulder blades.

I blink, and they're gone.

I must have gasped, because he's turned and seen the look on my face. He's tracked my gaze back to the wall behind him, and there's nothing there.

He smirks this time- seeing things, bastard?- and walks out.

He slams the door behind him, causing a momentary panic as the pile of papers on the edge of my desk gives up the fight it was battling against gravity.

I grabbed one of them out of the air, turned it over so the blank side was facing upwards, and started to draw.

The image was irreversibly stuck in my mind, and I had to let it out _somehow_.

When I finished, I sat back and examined the masterpiece: Edward Elric, standing (snicker) _tall_ with his wings spread proudly behind him.

It wasn't beautiful or stunning. The wings weren't made of soft downy feathers of pearly white and he had no halo shining upon his crown.

They were- hard to describe. Like they were insubstantial. For lack of any other idea-

They were like glass. Blackened and scratched to hell and back, but unshattered. They reminded me of the icons of the old religions, not the New Age fads where angels are friendly and kind creatures of mercy and grace. The older legends had it better, in my mind. The ones where angels were ambassadors and messengers only when they weren't being soldiers; where angels were creatures of _war_.

That's what he reminded me of. A fighter, a frontliner, ready to do whatever it took to succeed and pay whatever price was demanded.

I destroyed the picture five minutes later. I didn't want to see it again.

Since that day, I've kept my eyes firmly on his when talking to him. I haven't let them stray anywhere else.

He smirks, I smirk, he yells, I drawl.

The People's Prodigy. The People's Hero.

I think about what he can do some nights, and they're the ones when Riza's offering me my own alcohol back.

They never seem to think about the possibility that one day, he'll tire of saving them. That one day, he'll wake up and realise they're a part of the problems.

I heard it whispered on the street that they saw him as their guardian angel. I snorted, but held my tongue.

Guardian angel? Hardly.

_Arch_angel, however?

I thought it suited him _far_ better.


	2. Clueless

**Disclaimer- **I wish. I had no intentions to continue this... yet somehow, it happened. Hope it isn't too out of touch with the first piece.

Set a few weeks later. The other point of view.

* * *

"Fullmetal."

It was both an acknowledgement and an order. I sighed, kicked the table leg in protest, but accordingly got to my feet and followed the bastard into his office.

It was only ten o'clock. No doubt he'd piss me off before the day was over and I'd have an excuse to ignore him.

"Close the door behind you, Fullmetal." My hand was still on the handle. I let it drop and shoved it back with a foot.

Mustang was already seated. He raised an eyebrow at my actions. "I said _close_ the door, Fullmetal- though I may have overestimated your reach-"

And I knew he was only playing, being a bastard like every other time- but like every other time, I _had_ to rise to the insult-

_answer _the insult- because rising implied I agreed with him, and I can think of nothing I'd hate more.

With the obligatory shouting and desk-kicking over with, I sprawled over one of his couches. "What've you got for me today, bastard?"

From somewhere within the city of papers that was his work-space, he pulled out a single sheet and held it aloft, eyes glinting in that come-and-get-it way.

I'm not his pet, damn it, and I refused on principle to walk the incredibly tiring five steps between my couch and his chair to take the paper from him.

So he waited, gesturing with the paper every thirty seconds or so. I kept glaring, waiting the bastard out.

After seven minutes, he sighed, and put the paper back down. "Come on, Fullmetal, my patience is in _short_ supply-"

Five steps, and I had the satisfaction of denting the bastard's desk and snatching the sheet from under the hand covering it. If my automail twisted a finger, I'm sure it would be called an accident.

"-but yours is, as ever, shorter still."

Five steps back, ranting all the way, and things were as they had been minutes ago, only he had a bruised hand and I had the sheet. I skimmed through the three paragraphs before looking up from the couch to stare at him (not easy to do, but I had practice. Because while good military dogs accepted orders from in front of him with a salute, _I was not his pet, damn it_, and I would do so at my own leisure with a casual wave if he didn't annoy me too much).

"So I have free reign on this one?" All those three paragraphs had detailed was the situation. No orders, no suggestions-that-really-were-orders, no codes of conduct telling me what _not_ to do that they might as well call orders because let's face it, they were fooling nobody.

The bastard looked momentarily afraid of the notion that was me, brother in tow, dealing with a situation without orders as I saw fit.

Then the fear passed as I'm sure he realised, like I did, that _that_ situation occurred every time he sent me out, orders or no.

(Hey, I'm never gonna like him, or go out of my way to help him... much- yes, shut up-, or stop pretending I don't respect him- again, _shut up_-, but I've never seriously thought he was an idiot. Well, maybe that one time when it was raining. Then that other time when he dodged, and Hawkeye _actually_ shot him- luckily, it was only a flesh wound, or she might have shot him again for scaring her like that- or when- well, you get the point. He's an idiot when he's _actually being an idiot_. When he's not, he isn't. Makes perfect sense.)

The bastard's voice dragged me back to the conversation. "-not free reign, you'll get your orders in a minute. You just need to answer a few questions first to prove your suitability for the mission." He let go of the smirk he'd been holding back for the last few minutes- because the bastard is much easier to read than he likes to think he is- and leant his elbows on the desk.

"Is this anything like the quiz Havoc made me take as a joke to decide if I was insane or not?" I growled at the memory. "As in, _not exactly necessary_?"

The smirk expanded. My right arm twitched with the desire to punch it.

I ignored both, again with practice.

"No, Fullmetal; if you'd read the information properly, you would realise that we are potentially sending you into a religious hotbed, full of indecision and immediate punishment of blasphemers."

"Sounds interesting," I admitted begrudgingly, because it did. My last few missions had been around East Central; something new would be nice. "But... you know me. Why are you even considering this?"

Mustang rolled his eyes. "Competent alchemists are somewhat-"

If he makes another joke about my height-

"-of a rarity, at the moment." His eyes showed the laugh that if he values his cheekbones, he won't release. He _knew_ what I was thinking.

Bastard.

Eyes still laughing, he continued. "So much against my advice, I was told to at least try you for the mission." He leaned forwards until his chin was resting on his elbows. "Tell me Fullmetal, what do you know about angels?"

I shrugged, because honestly, _that_ was his qualifying question? "Wings and feathers and shit? Looking after righteous people? Not a lot, really; somehow fictitious devotees of some god or another didn't come up in our research about philosopher's stones." My reply was every bit as scathing as he deserved for asking _me_ a question like _that_.

Mustang... I can't actually tell what he's thinking. Why is he looking at me like that?

"Come now Fullmetal, that answer won't do." Is he... amused? Disappointed? Strictly neutral? I... I can't tell. "You must know more than that."

It's annoying for two reasons: I still can't tell what he's thinking, and well, I do. He wasn't supposed to know that, though.

I shrugged again. "What does any mother tell her children? The angels are watching over them." It was harder to get the next bit out, but I knew if I didn't tell it under my own terms, the bastard would make me tell it under his. "After- she died, I got curious. In between researching for, _that_, just once, I looked them up in Hohenheim's library. So, angels? Nobody can agree on whether they exist, what their names are, which religion they belong to. Archangels came up the most, messengers and generals of Heaven's army, the big four. Or seven, or two hundred for all we know." My fingers had started drumming at some point in the explanation. With some effort, I stopped them. "Why is this important?"

His face was still inscrutable. I couldn't tell _why_ this annoyed me so much. Then he sighed, and finally I recognised his expression as tired.

"It's not, really," he said softly. "I just wondered..."

He trailed off, and I noticed that yet again, his eyes seemed to go past me. It didn't happen often; it was almost as though recently, he'd been making an extra effort to look me in the eye when giving me orders- but sometimes, he slipped up.

I had no clue what he expected to see. My shadow? What was so fascinating about that?

I snorted to break him out of his reverie. "Whatever, bastard. You gonna give me the orders or what?"

Without looking, he withdrew another paper from the stack and held it out to me. "Here, take them," he muttered. His eyes showed a weariness that belied his earlier cheer.

But I didn't like the bastard. I didn't care whether he got enough sleep, or if for some inexplicable reason, he suddenly disdained to look at me. It's his own damn problem.

Pissed me off all the same though, so I grabbed the paper and left without another word, slamming the door again behind me. The outside office seemed to gather that I was rather annoyed, and didn't ask for explanations.

I could still feel his eyes on my back, watching me go. I had no idea what he was looking for.

All I knew was that the bastard had found another brilliant way to annoy me. Only this time, he was clueless as to how he was doing it.

Pft. What do I care, anyway?


End file.
